


new game minus.

by vantas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Amputation, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Human Experimentation, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple Endings, Murder Mystery, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: A human is too small a prison for a tempest. (Or: Suddenly gifted with the ability to turn back time, Keith must find a way to save his hometown and his best friend while keeping reality intact. ALife is Strangeinspired AU.)





	new game minus.

**Author's Note:**

> 09/03/2018 — This is my piece for this year's [Sheith Big Bang](https://sheithbigbang.tumblr.com/)! Chapters will be added throughout the day as I recuperate from commuting + my own body kicking me in the butt, whoops. 
> 
> For reference, please assume Keith is using a camera similar to [this one](https://imgur.com/a/1Z4MsRN) throughout the story. :') Have fun!
> 
> Artwork by [Oppii/fivespacecats](https://twitter.com/fivespacecats) on Twitter!

The first thing Keith becomes aware of is of a dull throbbing on the back of his head.

The second thing is the fact that there is broken glass embedded into the skin on the palms of his hands.

Understandably, neither of these sensations are pleasant.

When Keith opens his eyes, it's to the sight of soot covered walls and shattered windows.  There's a heavy, metallic scent lingering in the air.  A disgusting sort of grittiness clings to his skin as flickering fluorescent lights dimly illuminate the area.  Slowly, he realizes that he's laying on the ground in the middle of an unfamiliar room, surrounded by rubble and debris as a cool breeze wafts through several shattered windows — and through an alarmingly large hole on the wall. 

Obviously, this is not where he went to sleep last night. 

He doesn't know how he got here.

( _Short term memory loss_ , he remembers, _can be caused by cranial trauma._

He very pointedly avoids thinking about the pain on the back of his head.)

He pushes himself up on wobbly knees, shards of glass and pieces of rubble sticking to his flesh through the rips and tears on his clothes.  Getting back on his feet is something akin to an Olympic feat, the pain radiating from every muscle in his body nearly forcing him to double over out of sheer agony, but he somehow manages it.   There's blood on the palms of his hands where the glass has pierced his skin, as well as scratches on his legs from when he was lying prone on the ground.  When he carefully reaches up to touch the back of his head, his hair feels matted and sticky. 

His fingers come back tinged with red.

It's not a good sign, overall.

Even though he knows he left his cell phone charging on his nightstand before going to sleep, he still rummages through his pockets in hopes of finding it on his person.  His outfit isn't what he wore to bed last night, after all, jeans and a shirt hardly qualifying as sleepwear. It's not _entirely_ out of the realm of possibility, taking that into consideration — but he's not overly surprised when he finds nothing.  Disappointed, _sure_ , but not shaken to his core.  If he wants to figure out where he is in order to get some help, he's going to have to do it the old fashioned way.

Forcing himself to move, he makes his way towards the only door in the room, careful to avoid stepping on any pieces of debris with his bare feet.  He can't make anything out through the inky darkness of the night, even when he casts a glance out the windows, so that's yet another thing to add to his list of things that are horribly, terribly wrong about this situation.  It's fantastic, really.  It's exactly what he needs after waking up in the middle of an abandoned building, injured and with nary a thought of how he got here.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, the illumination gets gradually worse as he makes his way down the hallway connected to the room.  He finds himself squinting in the near darkness, one hand pressed against the wall as he takes slow, measured steps, nearly dragging his feet on the ground.  As long as he keeps a cool head, everything will be fine. As long as he avoids rushing forward, as he  _knows_ he has a tendency to do, nothing disastrous will happen. 

But it's hard not to feel like the unfortunate protagonist in a horror film.

And he's only proven right when he nearly tumbles down a flight of stairs.

He manages to latch onto what he can only assume is a handrail, landing flat on his butt and hissing in pain when the impact jostles all of his injuries.  His heart threatens to burst out of his chest, jackhammering against his sternum as he struggles to catch his breath.  He can't see where the staircase ends.  He can't even see three feet ahead of him with this lighting, which is — well.  It's bad.  He wants to get out of here, but he doesn't want to risk cracking his head open like an egg while alone. 

He doesn't want to die.

Keith debates getting back on his feet and navigating his way downstairs in the darkness, but quickly decides against it as soon as he remembers the sensation of falling.  He opts to throw his dignity away, instead, scooting down the stairs like he's a toddler learning to traverse their two story home for the first time in their life.  In another time and another place, he would consider the experience to be embarrassing.  Maybe a little hilarious, even.  As it stands, he's just terrified of slipping on something he can't see and injuring himself further.  He can't call for help when he doesn't have his phone, and he can't saunter over to the nearest hospital when he hardly knows where the heck he is.

Needless to say, it's a relief when he reaches the end of the staircase.

From then, it's just a matter of feeling his way around in the darkness with as much care as possible.  He eventually comes across a large gap in the wall where he supposes a door _should_ be, a cool breeze wafting through and chilling him to the bone.  His vision adjusts somewhat as he steps through it, the moon visible in the sky even if it offers little in the way of illumination.  Still, it's enough that he can more or less recognize the place he's found himself in.

He thinks he's at the top of the hill that oversees the town, right by one of the numerous abandoned buildings that someone began tearing down years ago but never got around to finishing.  From here, he can see the lights of Altea.  Numerous dots of orange light from the street lamps lining the streets, paving the way towards the beach Altea is so beloved for.  It no longer smells like iron, as it did while he was inside of the building.  It smells like the ocean now.

The scent is soothing, and he allows himself to bask in the temptation, comforted by the knowledge that getting back to town would be an hour's trip by foot at most.  Annoying, but not as bad as he was imagining.  All he needs to do is make his way down without getting lost, and then he can stop by one of the twenty-four hour clinics to get patched up.  After that, he would figure out what happened to him and—

"̖͖͈̾̈̊͒ͣ̈¥̟̘̗͚ͭ̉̎͋͠Ö̗̣͉͙̙̈́͞_̷̧̞̜͚̘ͬͯ̌Î͌ͦ͂҉̸̘̹̮ô̡̱̱͈ͦQ̤̹̝̙̪̻͈͎͓͌͠î̴͉͍̿̎ͧ.̢̟̤̭͚̪͉ͯͫͥ̈́̈́͒̈́ͦ͞"̰͎͕̼̓̈͋̋̃̄͆̈͟ ̷̝̮̞͈͋͛ͥ̾͒ͨͬ̐̈ͅ

He stills.

Though he doesn't know when they crept up on him, he's now keenly aware of the fact that someone is standing behind him.

Carefully, as if dealing with a wild animal, he turns around.

All he sees are bright, yellow eyes staring back at him, the iris indistinguishable from the sclera.

Again, the voice speaks. 

It is distorted and nearly unintelligible.

It feels like someone is pushing their fingers into his ears, sharp nails digging out his eardrums and causing irreparable damage.

 _"_ _̴͉͖̻̥̖̥͖̠͋̓̆̉ͬ_̨̜͍̲̙̻͔̲ͪͫͨ̂̂̀̏́Ä̷̺͖̻̖͇͉ͫ̌͋̕͡ͅ_̥͙̻̳̳̤̼ͧͧͮ͊ͧͅ_͇̜̲͌̄̐͌͑̾͛̾̎͡Ë̞̤̰͎̇ͧͭ͌͛͞Í͒́̎̑̓̐̔͏͏̪̬̙̪͕̥̝̮n̴̙̼̤̥̽̾̂̿̐͑,̰̤͇̜̎"̾͛ͥ̽ͣ͑҉̝͔͔͍̙̝_ it screams. It screams and screams and screams and shouts.  "̭̰͍̙̙͓̤̘͗̋ͯ̚͡W̠̲͙̰̪̥̣̘͙̅̀̈́̕̕͠h̟̥̟͖͙̥͛̆̔̈̉̓ͯ͘Â͐́̇́ͧ̓̚͏̘̮͞t̛̤̮̠̲̹̆͛ ̫̥̗͎͂̈́͐͐̄̉͘͘ͅḥ̶͙̝̗̜̠͚͚ͥ͟͠å̤̘͍̤̳̻̪̆̔͒̿͛́͠v̸̇́̏͗̾̋ͤͫ͏̤͈̥͙̞̩͟Ḛ̩̀͆̀͆̓ͩ͡ ̷̩͉͕͚̥̘ͩ͆̇ͦͪ̆ͤ͞Ý̩̪̝͖͇̦̫ͭ̍̏̾̍͑̀ͭ͘o̱͇̼̲̮̥͆͢͡û͔̗̯͍̝͇́ͫͭͭͬ͜ͅ ̛̹̭̝̭̞͙̘̅ͫ̓̌̏̄͒̂ͣ̕d̵̦͔̬̣̞͇͛͒ͥ͝ͅó̷̩ͣ̒͠n̢̟͒͢é̢̺̪̘͓̜͘^̵̷̦̭̼͈̞͚͇̂͑̅ͯ(̻̝̜͙̠̲͖̬ͯ͌ͥ̑̓͂?̻̮̹̠̯̟̈͌̑̌̆̊̆!̡̼̈́̄̈ͯ͋̚͠"̮̹ͯ̿̇͛̄̍ͥ͠͠

Someone slings their arms around Keith's shoulders, clasping their hands in front of his chest and resting their chin on the crook of his neck.  Their breath is hot against Keith's flesh, something warm dripping down their face and falling onto his torso. 

It smells like iron.

It smells like blood.

He feels his own lips move in tandem with theirs.

"I did what I had to do for love."

In that instant, it starts to rain.

* * *

 **chapter one:  
** man upon the hill.

* * *

>   **MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 14TH**

When Keith opens his eyes one of his pillows is on the floor and his heart feels like it's ready to claw its way out of his throat, desperate for escape.

It could be worse, though, he thinks. 

It could be way worse than waking up with his beats per minute through the roof, though he doesn't know  _why_ he latches onto that particular thought. 

Not really. 

He's left wondering what the heck that dream (that nightmare) was about, running his clammy hands down his legs, arms and neck as he checks himself for injuries.  He's fine.  He's not bruised or bleeding.  But the sensation of someone's breath against his skin lingers, and he can't stop himself from shuddering as his right hand stops on the crook of his neck, fingers digging into that particular patch of skin.  It feels — disgusting.  Like worms crawling on his skin, leaving dirt and slime wherever they go.  His stomach churns unpleasantly, and he considers trying to go back to sleep even if he isn't entirely sure he wouldn't get dumped into a thrilling sequel for whatever _that_ was.

There's no time to sleep in, though.

His alarm clock starts to ring the moment he closes his eyes, vibrating where it rests on his nightstand.  Keith stares at it for a moment, feeling oddly detached, before he reaches over to shut it off. 

He allows himself to lay there for two seconds longer in order to enjoy the silence — but no more.

With a sigh, he pulls the sheets off his body and swings his legs over the edge of his twin sized bed.

Today is going to be weird.  There's no way around it. 

At least it's on par for a Monday. 

* * *

Keith's morning routine is simple and straightforward.  He goes through it every day, adherently sticking to a schedule with such vehemence, that the staff at the home he used to live in would probably swoon and sigh in delight if they saw him now.  That, or frown while going on a spiel about the dangers of institutionalization.  One or the other. 

Not that it matters when he hasn't lived in the home for a year and a half now, anyway. 

He wakes up three hours before he actually has to report for class.  He stretches before getting out of bed, popping his fingers and toes and slipping his feet into the flip flops he keeps by the bed.  He opens up the mini fridge in his shoebox-esque dorm room and serves himself a bowl of cereal, reading through the notifications in his phone while he eats but finding nothing of interest.  Once he's been adequately fed (or adequately _enough_ ), he makes his way to the campus gym.

This is where he remains for thirty minutes.

None of these tasks require extensive contact with other people, beside the polite greeting as he walks past fellow classmates or people he frequently sees at the gym.  He can complete these niceties by nodding at people as they run across each other in the hallways, or by giving them a smile as they head off in opposite directions.  Acquaintances are acquaintances, and everything is fine as he keeps being polite. 

Some people actually want to  _talk_ to him for whatever reason, though.  And some of these people actually want to be nice to him for prolonged periods of time.

It's a little boggling, when Keith has invested so much time and effort into— 

( _"You don't understand, so leave me alone."_ ) 

Whatever. 

It's just weird. 

Hunk, his dorm's resident assistant, is brushing his teeth when Keith steps out of the shower he was using, already clothed but slightly damp even after patting himself dry.  He catches a glimpse of Keith through the mirror in front of him, his brown eyes crinkling before he quickly spits and rinses his mouth.  He's pretty sure some people would be grossed out by having to stand next to someone who keeps gurgling and spitting, but it's not the most disgusting thing in the world and it's not as if it's something that  _nobody else does_.  Anyone who says otherwise is a liar, really. 

Either way, Hunk is smiling at him, rubbing his thumb over the bristles of his toothbrush as he rinses it out.

"Good morning, Keith," he greets him, kindly.  He sounds a little groggy, which is understandable given the fact that it's a Monday.  "You're up early."

Keith hums, smiling despite the fact that even after a whole semester of living here, he still hasn't quite wrapped his head around Hunk's existence.  Not that he minds, anyway.  It's weirdly nice to know someone is happy to see him in the mornings, even if Keith is the worst at holding up his end of a conversation.  Blunt answers and a general lack of tact will do that.  

"I'm always up early," he responds, as if it's something that needs saying.  But he's trying out this new thing where he doesn't offer monosyllabic answers to people who try to socialize with him, so pointing out the obvious is a necessary evil.  "I don't like wasting daylight by staying in bed."

Hunk huffs out a laugh at that, stuffing his toiletries into a duffel bag.  "Tell that to Lance," he says, "I could hear his alarm going off while I was in my room— Thin walls, man! It woke _me_ up and I'm pretty sure the guy's still snoozing."

Keith has absolutely no idea who Lance is nor does he have a particular desire to find out.

He nods, anyway.

"Sorry," he says, trying to be sympathetic.  "That's rough, dude."

Hunk sighs, dramatically, running a hand down his face.  " _Tell me about it._ This like, violates  _so_ many best friend codes. Best friends don't wake up their best friends with their alarms."

Keith hums idly, fishing his toothbrush and toothpaste out of his own duffle bag.  He doesn't know what to say to that. Having one's best friend wake them up with their alarm seems like such a minor offense, in comparison. 

It could be worse. 

Luckily for him, Hunk is more than happy to carry both sides of the conversation for him.  Keith wonders if shooting the breeze with him in the communal showers is cathartic in some way, and decides that it probably is considering all the complaints he's heard about this  _Lance_ guy since meeting Hunk last semester. None of them are particularly malicious, but still — they don't paint a flattering picture, either. 

When Hunk is done poking fun at his best friend and complaining about his latest antics, he glances at his phone and grimaces. "Whoops, gotta go if I want to get to Montgomery's class on time.  See you later, Keith." 

"See you later," Keith parrots back, halfheartedly, with a mouthful of toothpaste foam.  

Hunk leaves, shutting the door behind him. 

Every morning is the same as the last.

Keith brushes his teeth.  He spits.  He rinses.  His washes his face and runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to make it seem less like a mess, which is easier said than done when his hair has a tendency to stick up wherever it can. He tidies his outfit up now that he has a mirror in front of him, straightening his shirt and adjusting the strings on his sweatpants.  One that's done, he shoves his toiletries back into his duffle bag and leaves the communal bathroom.

It's 7:38 now.  Twenty two minutes to go before Biology with Honerva.

Returning to his room consumes one of those minutes.  Grabbing his backpack takes only seconds.  Pulling his lanyard over his head and by the mirror in his room takes up more than it rightfully should, but every morning is the same as the last.

He unhooks the small camera case from his lanyard, pulling the zipper open and removing the pocket sized instant camera.  An  _MRMR4_ model, nearly a decade old.  Tiny enough to comfortably sit on his hand.  Marred by nicks and scratches, but still as vibrant a shade of purple as it had been when his mother passed it onto him.  Once upon a time, the two of them would sit down on the dining room table and take a picture of themselves every morning.  It was family tradition.  Mother and son, compiling photographic evidence of the passage of time.

There isn't much of a family left to photograph nowadays, but tradition is still tradition.

Keith's face remains carefully blank as he takes a picture of his reflection in the mirror.   The photograph comes out of the side of the camera moments later. 

He places it on the wall, along with the others.

Every morning is the same as the last.

* * *

 _St. Groggery's International University_ isn't as fancy or prestigious as the name would lead one to believe.  Located near the heart of Altea, it offers (relatively) cheap tuition for students who depend on federal grants and scholarships to stay afloat. It also offers a remarkably well regarded Photography curriculum, lauded and recommended by both ex-alumni and professionals in the field. 

Which is just as well, given the fact that Keith has extensive plans for his future.

Campus is the same as always. Decked out in white and blue hues, slightly gritty, and equipped with enough staircases to make a lesser men keel over. There have been no changes since the last time Keith made his way across the courtyard, sleep deprived and with a ravenous appetite for junk food.  It had been a Friday evening (last Friday evening, to be exact), and the only difference between then and now rests in the fact that sizable portion of the people around him are having trouble coping with the fact that it's Monday again.  Some of them are even still dressed in what seems to be their pajamas, cups of coffee and tea clutched in their hands as they desperately will their attention spans to return to normal.

Keith can't say he blames them.

Honestly, he wouldn't have gotten out of bed so easily if it weren't for that nightmare freaking him out first thing in the morning.

Making his way through the courtyard and successfully navigating through the students cluttered around the hallways, he reaches room C108 by 7:57 AM.  His professor is already inside, depositing the contents of her work bag on the desk by the whiteboard while waiting for the rest of her students to file in.  Keith lingers by the doorway for a moment, the fingers of his left hand brushing against the wall, before he makes his way inside and takes his usual seat at the back of the room.

After that, it doesn't take long for most of his classmates to file in.  The ones who are usually tardy make no attempts to rectify their behavior, and the guy who always glares daggers at Keith for whatever reason arrives fifteen minutes late.  At this point, Professor Honerva no longer bothers to call students out for this.  Her weariness is palpable even as she continues her lecture — the same one that the guy blatantly ignores, taking out his cellphone along with his notebook.  From his current position, Keith can see him scroll through some social media app that he doesn't really recognize. 

It also takes all of his strength to keep himself from bursting into laughter when the guy accidentally clicks on a video, ABBA's greatest hits immediately blasting at full volume from his cellphone speakers.  He scrambles to turn it off.

The classroom is completely and utterly silent.  

"Serrano," Honerva speaks out, after a moment of silence.  She pushes a stray strand of gray hair behind her ear, purple eyes set on his classmate.  "Since it seems to me that you already know what today's lesson is about, why don't you provide a summary for your classmates?  Surely, they would benefit from it."

The guy, _Serrano_ , opens his mouth.  Closes it.  Opens it again.  Does his best impression of a flopping, dying fish.

Eventually, he manages to squeak out an answer.

"I— I don't know.  Sorry."

Honerva hums.

She turns to Keith.  Her gaze is still intense, but it is different this time.  Less severe, perhaps. Less — _something_.

"What about you, Keith?" she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  Her fingernails are delicately manicured, coated with a brownish red color.  "Would you be so kind as to catch Serrano up on what we've discussed so far?"

Keith pointedly ignores the glare Serrano aims his way.  He nods, elbows propped up on his desk as he glances at his notes. 

"Yes," he says, right before he gets to the point.

If Serrano shoulder checks him on his way out of the room once class is over, Keith doesn't really care enough to be offended over it.

He doesn't even know the guy, anyway.

Whatever. 

There's a space of an hour and a half between Biology and his Studio Concepts class.  Scheduling had, unfortunately, not worked in his favor when he was signing up for his classes.  That left him with an hour and a half of dead time when there was nothing else for him to do.  Homework would be nice right about now, but Honerva didn't assign him anything and neither did his other professors over the weekend.  He was left to his own devices, snapping miscellaneous pictures of squirrels near the street and vaguely listening to the idle chatter of the students around him.  Something about TV shows. Something about video games. Something about _fire_.

He glances up at that particular topic, his camera clutched in his hands.

The squirrel he was photographing scuttles away.

And that's when he sees him.

It's a man.  Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, his outfit does little to conceal the fact that he is  _ripped_.  He's easily two times Keith's size, broad shoulders making his shirt form fitting at the top.  He's standing by the edge of the sidewalk opposite to campus, squinting at a piece of parchment clutched in his hands before he glances up.  There is a shock of white hair against his forehead.  It suits him.

In true cliche manner, Keith finds himself meeting the man's gaze, stupefied. 

Seconds later, the man's eyes widen, his eyebrows shooting up as his lips part in what seems to be surprise. 

They hold each other's gaze. 

And then a sleek, white cargo truck comes out of nowhere and unceremoniously turns the man into roadkill. 

Keith screams.  

So does everyone else around him. 

He jerks back, stumbling over his own two feet as his left hand reaches forward and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making his way through the courtyard and successfully navigating through the students cluttered around the hallways, he reaches room C108 by 7:57 AM.  His professor is already inside, depositing the contents of her work bag on the desk by the whiteboard while waiting for the rest of her students to file in.  Keith lingers by the doorway for a moment, the fingers of his left hand brushing against the wall.

Every morning is the same as the last.

Except, today, Keith saw a man die.

He stumbles away from the doorway, recoiling in horror as the events of the last five seconds ( _last f_ _ive—?_ ) of his life catch up to him.

He saw a man die.

He saw a man get run over by a truck.

He saw blood and limbs and brain matter splattered across the pavement as the man went down and got his head squashed like a bug, the truck driving away and away and away and—

He saw—

_He saw—_

Nothing.

His hands are cold.  There is a minute trembling to his fingers.  Someone bumps into him, giving him look as they make their way into the classroom, but — Keith doesn't care.  He saw a man die.  But he did not.  He saw someone lose their life outside of campus.  But such an event never happened.  There's no way something like that happened, and the reason why is pretty darn simple.

It's 7:58 AM on a Monday morning, and he's standing in front of room C108 like nothing ever happened.

Honerva looks up from her work bag, brushing her bangs out of her face before she notices him standing by the door. 

"Keith," she calls out to him, her eyebrows furrowed.  "Is something wrong?  You seem unwell." 

He saw a man die.

Or he may have imagined he saw a man die.

Neither of those possibilities is better than the other.

He shakes his head, steadying his hands by shoving them into his pockets.  They are still cold.  The tips of his fingers feel like they're _freezing_.  He thinks he's about to vomit, but he refrains.  He doesn't know what's happening, so it's in his best interest to avoid causing a scene.  He doesn't want to summon any unnecessary attention onto himself. 

"I'm, um. I'm fine," he says, stumbling through his words and feeling like a child.  "I'm just... tired.  Monday, right?" 

"Ah," Honerva says, simply, before turning back to her own materials.  "Then I would suggest you come inside.  Class is about to begin."

He lingers by the doorway for a moment longer.

And then he forces his legs to move, taking his usual seat at the back of the classroom.

It doesn't take long for most of his classmates to arrive.

The ones who are usually tardy remain tardy.

Serrano still arrives fifteen minutes late, waltzing into the room like he owns the place. Keith watches him with a mounting sense of horror, a chill slowly running down the notches of his spine as he sees him retrieve his notebook and cellphone.  He cannot make himself look away as his classmate unlocks his phone, punching his passcode in and opening one of his social media apps.  Keith recognizes the user interface design from before. 

He stares at him as he scrolls down numerous posts.

And just like last time, the classroom is suddenly filled with music as the guy accidentally taps on a video with his thumb.  

Next to him, someone snickers. 

But unlike the last time, Keith isn't in the mood to laugh.

He saw someone die.

He definitely,  _definitely_ saw someone lose their life. 

Vaguely, he's aware that Honerva's talking to Serrano.

Vaguely, he's aware that Serrano is talking to Honerva.

 _Vaguely_ , he's aware that Honerva's talking to him.

Maybe Keith answers her question once again. 

Maybe he says nothing, too shocked by the revelation to function like a human being.

Keith isn't aware of anything that he's doing until he grabs his backpack, shoves everything inside, and runs out of the classroom five minutes early like his life — _a_ life depends on it.

And it does.

It does, it does, it _does_.

He wants to be wrong.  He wants everything to be a coincidence or a particularly horrible case of déjà vu.

But if he doesn't check, and that man's brains end up splattered across the pavement once again — he doesn't know what he'll do. 

He doesn't know how he'll live with himself, the memory of blood and gore forever engraved in his mind.  He remembers people screaming in shock and horror and fear as reality caught up with them.  He remembers that the truck didn't pause for a second after running the man over, driving away like nothing happened.  He remembers his knees going weak, his feet no longer able to support him as he reached out with his hand to catch himself and—

He was back in Honerva's classroom, everything undone. 

He doesn't know what to think of it, but there's no time to dissect everything.  Keith spots the man as soon as he steps out into the courtyard, heart lodged in his throat as ice works its way up his limbs.

The man is alive.  He's staring at the piece of paper clutched in his hands, probably reading whatever is written on it as he steps closer to the edge of the sidewalk. 

Keith doesn't really pause to think about what he's doing.

He just _acts_.

He runs across the courtyard in an instant, rushing past the campus gates and darting across the street until he's close enough to the man to hurl himself at him, pushing him away from the road and further into the sidewalk.  From the corner of his eyes, he seems something white and sleek as they both roll across the ground. 

The truck passes by dangerously close to them, one wheel  _on_ the sidewalk before it swerves back onto the road and carries on like nothing happened. 

A moment passes. 

And then another. 

It's not until the adrenaline starts to seep out of his body that he realizes he's sprawled on top of a complete stranger, his face practically buried against the man's chest.

Keith jerks up, pushing himself up to his knees and graduating from laying on a stranger to sitting on one. He sucks in a sharp breath, a telltale shakiness in his every move.  The man stares at him, eyes with with dilated pupils.  His lips are parted, his tongue darting out momentarily to wet them, and there is _something_ about him.  Something about the color and shape of his eyes that's—

"—Keith?"

Recognition immediately sets in.  

The truth suddenly becomes blatantly apparent. 

 _"Shiro?!"_ Keith gasps, pulling back just as Shiro reaches forward to grip at his arms. 

Reality smacks Keith in the face like a big, yellow school bus. 

He's sitting on Takashi Shirogane's lap.

He's sitting on his _childhood friend's_ lap, while said childhood friend grips at his arms, looking at him like he can't decide whether to pull him close or push him away.

The feeling is hilariously ( _distressingly_ ) mutual.

"Shiro," Keith breathes out, softer this time. Something is threatening to burst out of his chest, and it seems to have absconded with his capacity for eloquence.  "I— You— What?"

Shiro tightens his grip on Keith's arms. Distantly, Keith notes that his friend's hards are large enough to comfortably close around his bicep. 

It's a lot.

It's too much, too quickly.

But whatever _it_ is, Keith doesn't get a chance to process it before Shiro is pushing him off his lap, frowning at something  _just_ behind him. 

When Keith glances over his shoulder, all he sees is a swarm of concerned faces as people begin to make their way over to them. 

"We'll talk later," Shiro tells him, pulling himself up to his feet in one swift motion.  "I promise."

And just like that, Keith is left alone, sitting on the pavement by himself until people reach the other side of the street.  Someone places a hand on his shoulders, dropping to a crouch to look at him in the eyes, but Keith barely registers anything.  They ask him if he's okay, if everything is alright, if he's hurt, but—

But—

He doesn't know. 

So he nods.

"I'm okay."

And if that doesn't count as the biggest lie he's told to date, then he doesn't know  _what_ does.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on: [tumblr](http://carcinology.tumblr.com/) • [twitter](https://twitter.com/beheads).


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